MORE BAD NEWS

DA WORD


Dawn's an advert for sunrise, copy of will,
mind pour, tame of process and nature; her show
will drain liquid man for disposable
cups of recyclable heat, kept in tube warm rows
stacked vertical that move in tilt noble
curves, and deport through his person her weight.

Champion belt thinkers, perceive and taste
her needle, found by chance in vast haystacks
of binary optical data bits,
when light touch's swoosh in trickling dance
make fingertips jive and dig her location.

Dawn fans morph in a mass of electron
and sub particle continuum switch
code, toll in life's quantum the condomic
bell, sounding her one name - humanity,
ooohing, aarghing and praying to art.

Reality becomes her servant, proves
she lies true; that fiction is existence
and our dreams but the kind her dazzle mutes,
shatters, exploding to soul shards which slip
below the love for god's absolute cold
constant zero of absence we sense,
tense, bend and be when she's shaping us.

Oh
ineffable beauty, identity's
docket; please go, to return with her bold
outline, but delineate what form she
will appear in as me. Recognised by
you, will I arrive pressed with all the right
ink in the rubber stamp light of her sheen?


I am now sporting another black eye, only a few weeks after the last one clearing up. James Street flats in Dublin is where a little bastard of around 14 years of age lamped me one and ran off, as I was passing through there on Friday night with a bald man and three women.

We had just attended the opening of Alexander Reilly's Der Schwarze Kanal (The Black Chanel)exhibition and were in transit to an arty party in a disused stables, carrying bags of beer and being slightly worse for wear. The bald man knew the way, but had got lost and was on his phone asking for directions from various pals as little scangers and general dodgy looking people roamed the wild west flat complex.

We had drawn attention to ourselves in much the same way as Times Square Tourists would do looking at a map with lost looks littering their faces. I then made the fatal mistake of asking a young scumbag if he knew where the party was and he attempted to engage me in conversation aboput the bag of beer I was carrying, asking to have a look at it. I then dropped the bag, went to pick it up and the little shit hit me as hard as he could before running off.

A young girl who was with him was all apologetic about his behaviour and proved there is some humanity left, but I am only left cursing the young thug.

~

The only good news on the horizon is Namaya, the Irish poet who has lived in America for the last 30 years who will be performing at the Monster Truck art gallery on Francis Street Thursday 22 June, so come along and have a laugh.